


Neuromancy

by anniesburg



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Cyberpunk Slang, Dream Sex, F/M, Flirting, Getting Fingered With the Metal Arm, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Implied Power Imbalance, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Sex, speculative fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 04:06:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19822180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: A close encounter with a cyber ghost.





	Neuromancy

**Author's Note:**

> this is purely speculative and i'm sure this won't age well. nevertheless, i couldn't get it out of my head!! all the slang's ripped directly from the wiki but do let me know if you'd prefer i put in a glossary, thanks!!

It’s been night for a long time. 

You’re pacing by a window, stopping every few strides to stare out at the electric surge. The deep streets blink to life with only partial sputtering. Could be a form of therapy, you suppose, making contact with your city all over again.

“Really makes me feel like I belong. It’s beautiful,” you say to nothing. No, not nothing. 

“It’s a death trap,” there’s no footsteps, no annunciation beyond a voice. 

Then a body, or something approximating a body flickers to life behind you when you look. Johnny’s glaring past your shoulder, out the window. 

“I almost died down there in a No-Tell of all places, forgive the rose-coloured cyberoptics,” you grin at him in a way he would’ve found unsettling. There’s nothing on earth like having one’s brain scrambled by foreign chipware. 

“I died for real,” he states. The only sound he makes when he moves is a fluttering as he glitches in and out of the living world.

“So I surmised,” you step to the side, granting him unnecessary space next to you. He doesn’t have a body, nothing that can interact, but you know better than to be rude. “Can I get an exclusive? The rockerboy scene’s been grieving for fifty years.” 

“Wouldn’t have any staying power without a few secrets,” Silverhand’s voice is roughened and mirthless. He lifts his metal arm and taps the patch on your jacket bearing his band logo. 

The jolt through your body is sharp but harmless, like fiddling with a live wire. Jacking into an unknown deck produces a similar, dangerous thrill. You grin a little wider. 

It’s probably best not to fuck with this, but the emotional assault of the past week makes you feel like a boat about to capsize. You’re sad, this makes you less-sad. You reach out to Johnny, palm-out and push against his shoulder. 

Your hand goes right through him, enveloped in a crackling sensation that tickles the ends of your nerves. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t stop the manic giggle that bubbles in your throat. Your arm drops when it starts to hurt, Silverhand takes a step back. 

“Are you fucking five?” He shakes his head and turns away from the window.

You half expect him to phase out of reality again. But there’s something to the staying-power he mentioned. Now that the both of you are out of sight, safely tucked away in an impermanent approximation of high-rise living, he seems intent to stay as close to physical as he can. 

“I’m freaking the fuck out, that’s what I am,” you reply with a pointed turn towards the outward, urban sprawl. 

This isn’t a particularly nice part of town, but you marvel at the stinking rainbow of impurities all the same. Jackie’s dead, maybe that’s where the euphoria’s coming from. Think about it too hard and burn of tears’ll threaten again. 

You don’t actually know if he liked Samurai, you doubt he’d be able to see Silverhand at all. But this feels like yet-more borrowed time. You should be dead, the act of it could be a comfort. 

“You said you needed sleep,” Johnny looks at the mattress block, gestures with his shoulder, “sleep.” 

“Sounds like you got plans for tomorrow,” you lift an eyebrow but don’t look at him again. When there’s no reply, you’re forced to look again. 

He’s a lot closer to you, looking sour. You caution a half-smile. 

“Okay, sorry,” you shrug, “keep your secrets. It’s your spotlight, I’m just standing in it.” 

You don’t know if a man with a legacy like his should have a body. He looks nothing like you’d expected, considering he was rendered a radioactive smear on the side of the Arasaka HQ so long ago. He looks human, standing there, flitting in and out of sight involuntarily. 

It was always him, the memory of him, pushing you to create. The painful throb following the loss of Samurai petered out through generations, but it struck you like a fresh blow once you were old enough to realize you were listening to a dead man.

Meaningless divides characterized the late band’s disciples, stupid fights over whether Johnny or Kenny Eurodyne was the real genius. No argument could sway you, Silverhand was the one singing at the back of your mind. 

You never thought the sensation would be so literal. It’s overwhelming, it’s explosively unlucky all other things consider. Death shrouds your exuberance. Johnny thinks you’re annoying now? You’re in mourning, he has no fucking idea. 

So you spare him the adoration, he sounds like he’d have no need of it any more at best. Outward disdain for it at worst. Perhaps a reminder of all he had and lost, you can understand that. 

Jackie bleeding out in your back seat, the loss of him will colour everything you do moving forward in a vein similar to how Johnny steered you. But there’s no hologram of your dead friend, there will be no joy-fuelled reunion. This is your fault. 

“Fuck,” you exhale. Staring out at the city with its mottled skin, concrete and flaking, your eyes lose focus. “It’s been a hard week.” 

“Maybe if you stopped scraping at the wound,” Johnny’s still nearby, his voice is large and deadpan. It sends a chill up your spine. Your eyes close tight. 

“I”m going to bed,” you say. He nods. 

“About fucking time,” then he turns, takes two steps and vanishes before he can take a third. 

You’re alone at the window, alone taking off your jacket and stripping to your underwear. You’re alone as you flop down on the mattress.

—

There’s a warmth around the edges of your mind as you wake. It’s still fucking dark outside.

You blink back sleep, sitting up in bed and staring at the opposing wall, Johnny Silverhand blocks your view. 

He looks like he did a few hours before, still rough-cut and mean-faced. You smile at him again, all tired and addled, strangely soft around the edges. 

“This feels like a braindance,” you say before you can stop yourself. A pitched, strangled giggle tinged with despair leaves you. You lie back down. Your chest rises and falls, slowly. “You ever use those?” 

“How is this a braindance, I can’t touch you,” he replies. His pupils are dilated, the rest of his eyes so dark that you might barely tell. But there’s a soft mottling of brown iris near the edge, before bone-white sclera. 

Johnny’s eyes burn when you look at him again. Your grin widens, pointlessly. 

“Don’t remind me,” you sigh with a mock-flirtatious invitation. He doesn’t seem interested in mock-anything. 

He walks towards you, the falling of his feet sounds just like thunder. 

There are no flickers or glitches in his anatomy, only heavy thumps as he approaches the end of the bed. 

“What—” you try, your voice fails you. He doesn’t pass through the mattress, his knee bumps against it. 

You feel exposed, delightfully naked under his weighted gaze. You’re reminded, very suddenly, that he’s the evil that corporate elite created. And he looks bored stiff, in want of what you so easily joked about. 

“Oh, shit,” you abandon your search for eloquent phrasing, for questions that might actually be answered as he kneels on the bed. 

Johnny’s on all fours, moving towards you. You shove the blankets down your thighs, sitting up enough to reach and grab for the hooks of your bra. Fuck it, fuck it all. 

You catch those eyes again like you’ve been caught stealing something dangerous. It’s not possible, this isn’t happening. But it is, he’s getting closer. His advance is slow, giving you enough time to shed most of what remains of your clothing. 

“Are you going to say something?” You ask, “Explain something?” 

“Why don’t you stuff it for a second?” Johnny mutters, it sounds hard and intentionally unkind. But it doesn’t sting you, little does. 

“Why don’t we, huh? Stuffit?” Your humour grates the nerves he’s apparently repossessed, but a thin smirk curls up at the corner of his lip.

His flesh hand feels electric, his palm brushes over the inside of your already-open knee. You gasp, but don’t jerk away. It’s a familiar, shocking sensation but it doesn’t last. It certainly doesn’t hurt. The pads of his fingers press into you, warm and solid. 

“You want that?” He applies pressure that can only be described as gentle, pushing your legs further apart. Your underwear’s still preserving a little modesty, but you’re nude from the waist-up. 

You stare at him, your idol, the crux of your ability to write a line of poetry. The one pushing your creativity to the edge, rearing back and shoving hard. You always took him with you, every time you fell. 

“More than you’ll ever know,” you admit with a strained, happy noise. 

The air’s been charged between you from the start, filled with a deep-rooted discomfort stemming from an unequal exchange of information. But the tension suddenly shifts very noticeably, Johnny’s cock stiffens in his pants.

Your heart quickens as Johnny tilts his head, examining the answer and finding it to be good enough. He doesn’t quite pounce, but his forward lean is pronounced enough for you to understand. 

He’s met halfway, kissed with more heat than even he expects. The night stands still outside. 

Johnny must like it, he nips at your lower lip almost immediately. His hand is a lecherous, moving up your thigh. Your spread, giving legs close tight around him, he’s trapped. 

You smile into the kiss, feeling the frustration before he pushes you back by the shoulder. His metal arm is cool to the touch, shockingly unlike the rest of his body. You’re upright, leaning back on your hands and staring into his frustration. 

Poor guy, no matter how long it’s been for you he’s most definitely waited longer. Longer than you’ve been alive. Your smile’s still fixed on him as he looks at you to decide if you’ve changed your mind.

“I’m just playing games, come on,” you say, but you don’t release his hand. Instead, you look at the gleaming chrome fingers splayed across your shoulder, at his thumb resting atop your collarbone. 

You shift your weight on to one arm, curling your cold fingers around Johnny’s and pulling him away. You’re out of practice, not imagination, you handle his prosthetic with obvious care. Turning his wrist, you press your lips to the palm of his hand. The metal’s unyielding but the gesture not unwelcome. 

Johnny shifts, swallowing hard and looking at you with unmitigated desire. Goosebumps stand up on the back of his flesh arm, he presses his fingers more insistently against your soft thighs. 

It makes your spine straighten, you laugh again. His chrome hand warms when held against your skin, you guide it to your bare breast. 

“Start here, you fucking rambo,” you lift your eyebrows and push your chest out enough to interest him. 

Consider Johnny interested. His eyes, still intense and heated rake down the front of your chest. He gives your breast an experimental squeeze, smirking again at your soft moan. Your legs ease apart again, releasing his hand that explores no further up your thigh. He’s learned his lesson. 

You begin explorations of your own. His bulletproof vest is hardened armour shielding his torso, but he lets you touch it. You look for the buckles to disconnect it, finding them at the shoulders and hesitantly prying them open. 

Johnny shifts closer between your legs, allowing you to undress him. The clasps at his sides are next and you realize with a shuddering gasp as he rolls your nipple between his fingers that he’s trying to distract you. 

You’re determined, pulling off his vest and setting it heavily on the blankets pushed half-way down the bed. The sneering face of a faded, painted oni stares up at you. 

Underneath is a thin undershirt, tucked into his trousers. You seize the fabric and pull, pushing your hand inside and feeling the skin of his stomach and chest. Johnny stops for a moment, grabbing the hem of his shirt and casting it aside in one, quick motion. 

His dog tags clink and shift on their chain. You’re infinitely more aware of yourself as you inspect the information debased on the metal. Johnny watches you read his name, date of birth, the string of numbers underneath. You lift it like it’s something precious, taking it off and setting it carefully atop his vest. 

Silverhand sits back on his knees for a moment, just long enough for you to get an eyeful. You exhale, slowly and stare like you’re appraising an antique. 

“Gorgeous,” you mumble. 

It’s your turn to go to him, you throw your weight forward, looping your arms around his neck. There’s a heartbeat, his chest to your chest. You kiss his skin, rough and hot beneath your lips. Nowhere’s safe, you nibble on his collarbone and drag your hands down his chest. 

His body’s toned, solid as the side of a mountain. He feel real, inexplicably and perfectly real. Johnny’s hip bones are sharp and pronounced, dipping below his belt and hiding where you want to uncover next. 

The now-warm metal hand finds your chin and pulls your head back. He leans in for another, proper kiss, evidently desperate to be breathless and close to you. You indulge your own desire for that as you pull his belt open. Johnny doesn’t close his legs as you did when you reach between them. 

He grunts loudly against your mouth as you palm him with a gentle ferocity. You’ve done this, no matter how much you might’ve annoyed him. He’s hard and in need. 

There’s no need to grapple for control. When Johnny reclaims the high ground, you lie back on the mattress to accommodate that. You try to bring him with you, but he remains upright and staring your bare form down. 

His hands deserves songs and odes of their own, his fingers (both materials real but decidedly different in how they feel) curl around the waistband of your panties. It’s a rush to lift your hips so he can pull them off. They’re dropped, carelessly, off the edge of the bed. 

You’re naked, he’s not. Johnny’s aware of that and seeks to remedy it to an extent. 

Perhaps leather was a poor choice, his cock is straining against his crotch. He finishes your good work, unzipping his pants and pushing them down just enough to free his erection. 

You observe him again, playfully voyeuristic and void of shame. He’s nicely big, potentially enhanced but you’ve found through experience that doesn’t alter your fun. He watches you watching, his mouth in a serious line but an undeniably seductive pride in his eyes. 

Johnny enjoys your appreciation, isn’t that interesting? 

He pauses the action for a long moment, stroking himself and looking you up and down. There’s no escaping this, you suppose, you had it coming for how blatantly you stared at him. Still, it’s hard not to flash him a flirtatious smile. 

“Do you want this?” You ask, turning his question back on him. Johnny’s laugh is short, unfamiliar and right. It’s also painfully sarcastic, he grabs your hand and presses it to his stiff length. 

“You tell me,” he replies. 

You take up the role of preparation more than willingly so he might do the same. His arm glints in the partial light from the city outside as it moves between your legs. It’s suddenly very difficult to get enough air, the humour in the situation bleeds until all that’s left is hot lust. 

A blunt, finger made of cooling metal nudges at you. It moves from the top of your slit to the bottom with a touch so soft it should be criminal. He could take down a megacorporation with those hands, drain a man of his blood. Johnny could strum a guitar with the intent to lead revolution. 

And he’s touching you, you of all people. You shift underneath him, parting your knees even further. You’re rewarded with a low chuckle, he’s pleased. 

“That’s more like it,” he says, pressing against you with a little more force. His middle finger brushes over your clit, drawing circles that make it hard to stay focused. 

Johnny fills his songs with possible delusions. He gets in the heads of people, under their skins. They act as he tells them to, he inspires them. You grapple for the right words to express both admiration and desire, your hand leaving his cock so you can grip his wrist. 

He’s in charge, even as you guide his hand through the motions of your unravelling. You call him brilliant, unbreakable. 

And he sees fit to be amused with your efforts, maybe even a little bit impressed with it around the edges. He’s made love, as you have, to so many interesting souls. This meeting is another in a long line of unforgettable experiences. 

You get the feeling that holds true for both of you, it makes you sound goddamned desperate out loud. You sound like a loon, The joy is inescapable, the heart-wrenching impossibility of this kind of connection leaves you exposed. He’s been dead longer than you’ve been alive, you never thought this would happen. 

Johnny’s considerate. He touches you and watches your fluttering eyelids. It’s his favourite part, you suppose, the reaction. 

He’s given exactly that, you urge him with muttered encouragement. With the hand not holding his wrist, you reach for him. After a moment, he obliges. Johnny lets himself be dragged forward, pressing down atop you. 

You writhe unapologetically against his hand like something restless. He doesn’t seem the type to stop your wild thrusting, especially not after coaxing two slim fingers inside you. 

Evidently, he can’t stay so quiet for very long. Johnny whispers at you as he scissors his fingers, filthy and shockingly loving invitations. Promises (probably empty but still so pretty) are promised by both parties. 

You pull him, you push him and you clearly know what you want when it’s wanted. Johnny’s shoved back again by your arm previously looped around his neck. He looks like he’ll ask you what for, but he knows why the moment he sees your expression. 

You’ve wanted him forever, he’s been told as much. And now. You want him right now. 

Say no more, he gets his bearings with a shift of his body. It’s an awkward shuffle, grabbing blindly at his cock and leaving you empty for a scant few seconds. 

And then he’s pressing against you again, pulling gasp and groan from your lips as he fills you again. It’s a shocking, pleasant sensation that you’ve been too busy for as of late. 

But the greatest surprise of the evening is the quick push of his head into the crook of your neck. He kisses you, where your heartbeat thumps and hides all possibility of seeing how much you affect him. 

Your arms wrap around him again, running fingers through his dark hair as he decides the best pace. He likes it fast, clearly, but doesn’t bump his hips against yours. 

Lovemaking prior to this has been reminiscent of ancient life striking chips of flint, trying to make fire. There is so strike, no pain, no sharp and sudden wish you’d spent more time preparing. He feels good, his metal fingers still rolling over your clit. 

He’s a little too good at this, thrusting inside you as if he wants to be nowhere else. It’s a departure from annoyance, from discomfort. Johnny throws himself into the act and enjoys himself. 

You do your best to give back, but understand on some level that he doesn’t need it. This is right for him good for him, doing the majority of the heavy lifting. So be it, you press your lips to the side of his head, kissing him so many times you lose count. You close your eyes. 

The ever-growing heat reaches all-consuming, it surges in your belly and leaves your extremities pleasantly numb. You come with a force unexpected, making you shout without really thinking. In your arms, Johnny winces and pries himself from your neck. 

You expect a talking to, for him to stop. A reprimand during sex would certainly be a first. But there’s nothing of the sort, he takes to watching you again as you come undone. Your tones curl, your eyes squeeze tight. There’s a hand on your cheek, the brush of his stubbled lips over your forehead. 

Fuck. You do love him. You do, you swear it’s real as anything in this moment. You love him or you love no one. 

Johnny’s groaning, sounding pleased and similarly close. You’re not sure why things feel so detached all of a sudden, the foreground of the encounter separating quietly from the backdrop. You push it aside, clinging to him and feeling him shudder. 

He gives two more thrusts, long and fast before he’s done. Presumably, Johnny comes still half-buried inside you. It’s not an unappealing thought, your birth control implant is effective for three more years. 

The afterglow sees even more separation than before, you hug him tighter to try and combat the odd sensation. Silverhand has no complaints, he falls on top of you, all muscle and the clear desire to be held for a bit. That’s not hard to indulge. 

You don’t know how long you lie there with him, but he slips away eventually without you really knowing how or why. 

The dawn’s finally showing its face when you’re woken up by the sound of slamming car doors. Cocked guns and voices ring out from the street below. You jolt awake, sitting up and looking for Johnny. 

He’s not in bed, he’s by the open window. 

Your bra is on, panties too. Silverhand turns to look at your shocked expression when he hears you shift and sit up. He buzzes like always, flickers for a second. It didn’t happen. 

But his smirk, that same smirk can only be described as knowing. Your heart flutters, freezes and then flutters again. He looks at you, then glances back out the window. 

“Who contracted you to steal the chip?” Johnny asks. 

“Uh, shit, Dex,” you reply, still a little sleepy, “fucking asshole.” 

“Right, well I think the shitsuckers outside are here for you,” he steps away from the window, leaving you to scramble from the bed. 

“Oh, fuck,” you rush about the room, collecting discarded clothes and glancing briefly outside to confirm it. You know the three men spilling from the car. Dangerous motherfuckers, all, and moving into the lobby. 

Your gun is the first and last thing you grab. The little pistol that goes in your belt is ripped from under your pillow, where you tucked it upon entering the hotel room. You stuff it under your jacket. Then, the substantially larger blunderbuss’ lifted from its place by the bathroom door. 

There’s a shout downstairs, the sound of splintering wood and shouting. You’re asked for by name, Johnny’s right. 

You look at him, he shrugs and flickers out of existence.

Three on one, the odds aren’t great but that’s been the theme of this week. With your back pressed to the wall by the door, you wait for the right signal. 

Whoever’s out there, their names skitter over your scattered brain but none stick, decide not to rush in guns-blazing. There’s a voice on the other side of the door quicker than you expect. 

“We just want the chip,” the distinctly male tone wants to sound trustworthy. Liar, absolutely liar. 

“Bullshit,” you shout back, there’s grumbling on the other side of the locked hotel door.

A variation on the already-communicated terms is demanded again by another voice, this one not bothering to pretend you might make it out of this alive. Little do they know. 

A fist hits the door, then a boot but it stays shut. 

“Come out,” the third voice, the last voice. “You’re alone, the odds don’t look good. Just give us the fucking chip.” 

Alone. For some reason, the idea you might be seems so absurd at the moment. It’s so wrong, so stupid that a teetering minute, all you can do is laugh. 

“I’m not alone!” You say it louder than you expect. You’re not even fully sure if you’re right. But there’s a flicker out of the corner of your eye, a spark. Oh, you know then, it’s very true.

“What the—” there’s confusion, uncertainty and you seize your moment. 

You turn, taking your back from safety and punching the code into the keypad screwed to the wall. The door slides open, mercenaries revealed.The barrel of your gun is waiting.


End file.
